Mercy
I WAKE WITH a gasp in the dark. Adrenaline surges through me. I sit up and slam my head on the low ceiling. The roar of an engine and smell of exhaust reminds me of when I came across the border with Milo. I feel around, my skull pounds, but there’s nothing but rough carpet and metal.
I’m in a trunk.
My stomach flips over on itself.
Milo was right.
I wasn’t safe outside of the compound.
I roll to the side as the car comes to an abrupt halt. Then we’re moving again.
“Let me out!” I cringe at the splitting ache in my jaw. “Hello!” I lie on my back and kick the walls of the tight space. “Let me out! Please!” I bang my fists on the roof, but the car continues to twist and turn.
The combination of the exhaust and the jerky movements make my stomach hurt. I ball up and grab my knees to my chest.
I should’ve listened to Milo.
I should’ve listened.
My head aches and dives before swirling around until I’m sick. A violent surge of vomit rushes up my throat and all over the shoulder of my sweatshirt. I spit and gag but can’t move away from it in the tight space. I’m thirsty, and my head spins with the blackness around me until I don’t know which way is up or down.
I grip my throbbing jaw, wondering if it’s broken, as another wave of sickness rolls up from my stomach. I cough and spit as every muscle in my body tenses to the point of snapping. I gasp for a full breath. My eyes roll back without my permission. Whether it’s from the fumes, fear, pain, or exhaustion, I don’t know.
By the time the vehicle comes to a stop and the engine cuts off, I’m yo-yoing in and out of consciousness. The trunk pops open, and a wave of fresh air washes over me.
I tell my limbs to move, to fight, but I feel as though eight-hundred-pound bricks have been tied to my wrists and ankles.
Rough hands hoist me up as if I weigh nothing, and my head falls heavy backward.
“Why . . . are you doing this?” I hear myself mumble.
The man carrying me ignores me, but barks something in Spanish that has the other man racing ahead and opening doors. Fluorescent lights pierce my eyes and I squint as they flicker like strobe lights, making the pain in my head worsen. I’m being taken down a long hallway. I test my limbs as they slowly come back to life.
My captors speak in Spanish to each other, then there’s the sound of a metal door being swung open. I attempt to look around and see where we are, but I’m suddenly airborne. I flail my arms to try to protect my face, but they don’t move fast enough and I crash chin-first onto unforgiving wet concrete.
A horrifying groan echoes off the walls all around me, and it isn’t until I feel the rumble in my throat that I realize the sound came from me. I push up to hands and knees, but the pain in my chin is too much. I drop my head to my forearms and cry.
Milo
I LOGGED A good four hours sleep before the sun shining in through the patio door, and straight into my eyes, woke me. With fresh workout clothes on, I figure I’ll hit the gym after I find Mercy and hope she hasn’t eaten lunch yet.
I skip down the steps into the kitchen where Maria is preparing what looks like beef flautas. She hands me a mug of coffee. I was never much of a coffee drinker back in Los Angeles, where I was able to get a solid eight hours sleep a night. Here in Mexico, the liquid energy is a necessity.
“Good morning,” I greet Maria in Spanish.
“It’s almost noon.” She laughs and continues to stuff and roll tortillas.
I sip my coffee and take my spot at the window, my eyes hungry for Mercy. She’s usually in the grass with Toro, but not today. I lean from one side to the other to try to see the full expanse of the yard, but she’s not there.
“Is Miss Mercy sick?” Maria says.
I turn toward her and frown. “I don’t know. Is she?”
Her hands stop mid roll and she seems confused.
“She was up early this morning.” I sip my coffee. “Did she mention not feeling well?”
“I haven’t seen her today, that’s why I asked.”
Something akin to liquid fear charges my blood.
Maria’s brows pinch together, but she goes back to rolling meat into tortillas. “She usually comes down in the morning. I thought maybe she was still in bed.”
I set down my coffee and tell myself not to overreact. There’s a logical explanation. There has to be. I repeat those words to myself even though my gut tells me something is seriously fucking wrong.
I burst out the front door. The sun is high and it beats down on the top of my head.
I run around the estate to the servants’ quarters and, just like last night, peek in windows. I search through the citrus trees and gardens. Toro and a couple of the other property pit bulls follow me, sniffing at the ground and jogging to keep up.
“Mercy!” Shit, I sound frantic.
I slow my jog and take a few deep, calming breaths before calling for her again. I turn the corner to the back wall of the property where the bougainvillea grow, fully expecting to see her at her shrine. Blood drains from my face when I find it empty. Matter of fact, it looks as though it hasn’t been touched since I found Mercy here last night.
Frantic footsteps come from behind me. “The guards have seen nothing,” Maria says in Spanish before stopping next to me. “What is all this?” Her cheeks are pink and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her forehead.
“Some kind of altar, I guess. Mercy said she found it. She was here last night, praying.”
“Emilio, this wasn’t here before.” Maria crouches and inspects the candles. “She must’ve found these in the pantry.”
I lock my hands at my head and breathe past the fear that pinches my lungs. “What do they mean?”
“Each candle has a saint on it and is meant to petition God on our behalf.” She picks up one. “Saint Jude is the saint of desperate causes.” She picks up another and inspects it. “The Archangel Saint Michael, for protection.” And another. “Our Lady of Guadalupe.” She picks up the last, studies it, sets it back down, then stands and meets me eye-to-eye.
“What is it? What’s the last one?”
“Saint Christopher for safe travel.”
“Fuck!” I take off running to the front of the house, my pulse pounding in my throat. I burst through the door and jog up the steps to Esteban’s room. I don’t knock but throw open the door to find a woman, startled, in his bed. “Where’s Esteban?”
She rambles that she doesn’t know, and I head to his office below the stairs. Again, I forgo knocking and push inside to find him sprawled out on his couch, resting a glass of amber-colored liquor on his gut.
“She’s gone!” I stomp up to him, but I’m too anxious to sit still so I pace the length of the room. I fist my hands in my hair. “How the fuck did she get off grounds unnoticed?”
I should’ve seen this coming. Her depression over the last few weeks, her sudden flip last night when we made love. She had all the warning signs, yet I ignored them. Why didn’t I scoop her up and take her home when she first asked me to?
Because I was hell-bent on revenge.
“Can’t say I’m surprised. The girl was miserable.”
I freeze and glare at him. “How can you say that? You never even spoke to her.”
“Didn’t have to, ese. She looked miserable.”
Fuck off! “So what now? I need to get some guys on this. We need to search every possible hiding spot between here and the US border. She has to be close.”
“She’s your problem, not mine.” He sips his drink and his head lolls to the side. “Let her go. You’re better off without her,” he slurs and chuckles into his drink.
Fuck him. I need to think. Where would she be?
I head to the garage, throw myself into the El Camino, and tear out of the parking space with a squeal of tires and smoke. Dammit, Mercy! I told her to stay fucking put!
“Think logically, Milo! Think!”
I squeeze the steering wheel as I slam on my brakes, waiting for the guard gates to open. The moment I’m able to get through them, I step on the gas and skid onto the highway.
“She left on foot, which means she couldn’t be too far, unless . . .” Fuck! Unless she hitchhiked. But how the fuck would she get past the guards and the twenty-foot walls?
I pull out my phone and dial the house. Maria answers after one ring.
“Have someone check the walls for some kind of . . . I don’t know, a ladder or some way she would’ve gotten over.”
“They already are, Emilio.”
“Call me if they find anything.” I hang up before she has a chance to say goodbye.
I rub my eyes and search the desolate roadside. It has to be close to ninety degrees. She’d never survive a day out in this sun.
The road gets blurry. I blink to clear my vision and curse my tired eyes when they only worsen. It isn’t until the first drop gathers in my eyelashes that I realize . . . I’m fucking crying.
Mercy
“BLESSED MOTHER, FORGIVE me . . .” I can hardly hear my own voice as I push the words from my aching throat. “Mother Merciful.” Hot tears warm my eyes and fall from behind my closed lids.
Milo will come for me.
Eventually, he’ll find me.
I rebuke the voice in my head that whispers he doesn’t even know that I’ve gone. He believes I am at home, asleep in the bed we share, safe behind the walls of the compound. Hours will pass before he realizes I’m missing. He won’t be able to find me if he doesn’t know where to start.
I squeeze my eyes shut and pray. The words run together and my teeth chatter, but it’s not from cold. It’s fear. I know the possibilities of the fate that awaits me, and none of them are good. This is what I get for my impatience. My punishment is damnation or death—if I’m lucky.
With my knees pulled tightly to my chest, I turn and tuck deeper into the concrete corner as voices echo down the hallway. “Pleasemothersaveme, protectmeblessedmother, keepmesafeIpray . . .”
I whimper at the squeal of metal on metal followed by an argument between men in Spanish. I focus on their words, trying to decipher what they’re saying, but the few words I can pick up give me nothing.
A firm hand grips my upper arm and sends a stabbing pain through my shoulder as I’m yanked to my feet. The man with a thick strip of hair on his upper lip and foul breath barks in my face. He slams me against the wall and releases my arm. I cradle it to my stomach as a powerful force knocks the side of my face and sends me slamming to the floor. I cry out as every bone in my body screams in agony.
He laughs, obviously getting pleasure from my pain, and the metal door slams with the squeal of a rusted lock. The aches in my body become too much and I pass out.
“WHY ARE YOU doing this?” I mumble into the dark space of my prison.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. Days, maybe. I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness, only waking when the men who took me came down to stand me on my feet and strip me to my bra and underwear.
I fought them as best I could, fearing they’d hurt me with worse than a slap to the cheek, but they only slammed my hands above my head and held me there to take my photo. The act should’ve been humiliating, but I was so grateful they didn’t hurt me that I couldn’t find it in me to be embarrassed.
Even now, as they stand outside my door and bicker in Spanish, I don’t know what they intend to do with me. I curl deeper into myself.
“Please. Just . . . let me go.” I doubt they can hear me. I can hardly hear myself.
There’s a blinding pain behind my eyes. I can’t remember if I hit my head recently or . . . I lick my dry lips and swallow what little saliva I have left in my mouth.
I finally slip back into the darkness and hope to dream about a freedom I may never have.
A groan rumbles in my chest but turns into a holy plea for release just as the tears come again.
It’s hopeless.
This is where my life will end.